Scar Wars: A New Hope

I'm writing this on the evening of 2 October 2012, the day after I announced to my friends that I'd been writing a blog. 

Since writing this blog, and specifically the bits above this, I think that I've started to recover, physically and mentally.

Having had brain surgery to remove a tumour from my right temporal lobe seven weeks ago, I've had feelings that have been described by my GP as clinical depression.

She gave me a script for Citalopram, a generic anti-depressant. I haven't cashed it in yet. I don't think that I ever will.

I've had suicidal thoughts since getting home. (I also have a, short-lived, history of self harm, but this hasn't reared its head yet - although the thoughts are there.) 

But I think I'd prefer to describe myself as being clinically fed up rather than depressed. That's not knocking people that are depressed - I just don't think that I am.


I went to see a psychotherapist at Queen Square two weeks ago. I've got two more sessions booked in with her, the first of which is tomorrow. The first one made me feel very down. But perhaps you've got to go there to come back. 

I'm going to give it a chance. She's a nice enough lady and maybe she'll come across something outside of my own little sphere of worries that I hadn't realised was getting me down.


I hope that, in the same way that I felt better after hearing Dr Rees say that the surgery had gone well and I got to see the scans, having someone 'in authority' tell me at I'm not being weird might alleviate some of the pressure that I feel. 

Besides...

Two weeks ago I realised I was finally able to do press ups without feeling as though my brain was going to explode inside my skull. So far I've got myself back up to being able to do 61 in a row. Yesterday I did 180 press ups.

Last night Helen and I went on a run, my first run without feeling like my brain wasn't crashing about inside my head. I felt good afterwards, despite the feeling of literally wobbling in places that shouldn't wobble as we jogged up and down the Harringey Ladder.

Tomorrow afternoon I'm going in to the office to discuss coming back on a phased return. I'm quite nervous about it. I'm not looking forward to going back to work, my job reminds me of how useless I'd be in a post-apocalyptic world, but I am looking forward to having structure again. A feeling of accomplishment, at least on some days.

I'm going to treat it like it's a new job. Plus, the amount I've forgotten combined with the amount that appears to have changed there, it essentially will be a new job.

All of these things involve me breaking the cycle. They mean I'll be using my body as well as my head. I'll need to function, so I will function, of that I'm positive.

I'm categorically not saying that leaving the house will cure depression or its symptoms, but I feel a marked response in my head by using my body. I've exercised to exorcise, and to some extent it's worked.

In that vein, I've made it my aim to play my first match for Peckham's own Rogers Rovers FC before the end of October. And I can't wait.